Miss her
by Nea Poulain
Summary: We were the lonely snakes, the best warriors, the ones who gave everything, life, soul, dreams... And now is only me, and I confess it: I miss her. / Winner of the fourth place in a Potterfics' contest and translate from spanish


**Disclaimer**: all Harry Potter's universe belongs to J. K. Rowling

**Miss her**

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_"You can call me intolerant; I am, like many others. But don't blame us, because, if we don't be intolerant, you're not the tolerant ones; your beautiful actions don't be recognized for anyone, you utopic thoughts don't attract attention anymore. You should be thanked to us. The existence of good has no point without the evil between."_

_Mortífago (Deatheather), Metanfetamina, original in spanish_

_For my wife, Tanit._

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We are the lonely snakes, the out-of-favor depredators, the warrior no-one wants in his army; we are the ones who gave all —soul, dreams, life—, for the ideas which died at the same time as The Dark Lord, lord and master of all the silver masked, now dead, like her. Her, the Slytherin girl, the young snake, the teenager dressed on green and silver, who grew up until she became into the best deatheater for The Dark Lord. The girl who could have been the heiress of the Black fortune, if those two kids, her cousins, Walburga's sons, never have born. She, the teenager that looks at me when I criticized the noticeable Dumbledore's preference to the muggle-borns and she supported me. She, my accomplice, my friend, my wife. Bellatrix Lestrange, who is now dead.

Dead irrevocably. Dead, I said myself again, gloating over the bitter word which encroach my dreams and remembered that she is not anymore in the cell next to mine, claiming for the return of The Dark Lord, because there isn't any dark wizard who can return…, and she don't come back, either. I never see again that young woman who marry me, in the most opulent Black's party. I never hear again that unmelodious voice which never promise me eternal love and, instead of that gave me misfortune, war and death.

I imagine her again, after Azkaban, with the white dress. With the curly black hair she use to have and the promise of a world without muggles in her eyes. We are death and blood, stained on disgraced and we didn't know. And when we find out, we didn't care. How many lifes we didn't take away? How many fatalities we didn't cause? How many ships we didn't burn? And, in that way, whithout proposing it, without desiring it, I miss her.

Bellatrix Lestrange was so many things…, none of them with good intentions, and I miss her. That is the thing with the death, more cruel than any Dark Lord; death becomes "is" into "was". And, even us, the heroes in black feel yearning, condemned to the perpetual disgrace, for the ages of the ages, in the history print on the books, which told that the boy-who-lived with the lightning scar won the war against the Dark Lord… and that history repudiate us, telling the fatality we caused, all the deaths for which we are guilty, and all the disgraces.

I remember the _crucio_ in her lips, the cruel smile she offered to her victims and the adoration rictus she has to the Dark Lord, that expression, only reserved for him; the expression she never gave to me. I remember her mad laughter in Azkaban, and her never-ending shouts, proclaiming the return of the Dark Lord. And he came back, and rescued us, like he had promised long time ago. He rescued us, the snakes who had become into his warriors, and he promised the revenge we never had, the glory we never reached and world without muggles we never achieved.

However, war took her away, with that mad smile in her face, killed by the redhead madam. And I miss her like only I can, because I used to know her most sordid secrets, her most hidden truths. That confidences she only said to me, not even her sister or the Dark Lord. That secrets she told me in the darkness and lonely night, lying by my side, with the promise in her lips that she never be only mine.

I miss the teenager I could raise in my hands while she was laughing with that laugh of hers, so strange; I miss the Bellatrix that took away forever the sanity of that woman with a kindness face, married with Frank Longbottom, I miss the young woman who broke two mirrors the night her sister ran away with a mudblood. I miss her and I can tell that although my cruel and miserable existence. I miss the elever-year-old girl who was sent to a table full of kids wore in green by the sorting hat in the same way I miss the cruel Bellatrix, the woman who kill her own niece, married with a werewolf.

I can remember that Bellatrix who killed her own cousin, that scarlet boy who grew up until he became the worst godfather the world have; fugitive of this same prision, host of one of the cells filled with the memories of a bunch of lunatics who end their days here, without hope. We're all going to finish like that; except the ones who are dead, like her; we are all sentenced to the fate the honorable ones decided is the one we deserve for all of us, crafty snakes waiting for our moment.

We have been together all the time, like accomplices, like friends, fiancés…, as a marriage. We have been together even here, in Azkaban, before that judgment when a young man had begged piousness to his father, only for betrayed him years later. And Bellatrix stay in serenity, claiming fot the return of our lord and master. You can believe, really, when I say, from mi dark and black soul of silver masked, loyal servant of the Dark Lord, that I miss her.

Who more I can share that so sordid and darkness secretos? Secrets only whispered in the middle of the night. Who, if not her, faithful green accomplice, wear in black, with the twisted smile? To who, if is not Bellatrix Lestrange, after Black, the one who marry me one summer afternoon, driving me to the road of depravation, cruelty and madness? To her, the only friend I had, demonized for the books which are printing today, told how her, the best warrior of the Dark Lord, is the guilty of a bunch of deaths… And my name will beside hers, also with a history stained with the blood of my victims.

I am disgrace, the same as her, I'm blood, and mercy begs I always ignore. We are the eyes painted with the absolute horror, the scared expressions, the _crucios_ said with a pleasure aftertaste in the mouth. We were those snakes who enjoyed the morbid show of the torture and the death. We were those killers who broke families, basking with the woman's weeping, the children's tears, the husband's begs, which tried to save condemned lifes. We were the silent promise of revenge, that we never can fulfill, because the misfortune fall on us before we can kill all responsibles of the fourteen years we stay in Azkaban, robbing our sanity. But now, we are nothing. Now, there is only me to remember all the overwhelming, hurting truths, which deserve to fall in the forgetfulness forever.

Why her and not me? Maybe fate, maybe predestination, maybe sample coincidence, which put together the two most dangerous snakes. Coincidence, which put together the deatheaters with more hate inside, and the coincidence feed us with blood and death, with thirsty for revenge, stuck like a indomitable fire in our throat. And then, that coincidence took her away and leave me in this filthy cell in Azkaban, now without dementors, creatures capable to betray anyone.

Bur now she is dead, and I miss her; her, the girl overshadowed with the beautyof the youngest sister, blonde and haughty; her, the teenager who used to kiss me when the show to me the darkest part of her persiality; her, the young woman who turn into reality her ambitions, became it into a tattoo, dark, like our existence, in the left arm. I miss Bellatrix Lestrange, who marry me without promise endless love and who never deliver me all his person, stained in venom and danger.

After of all, there are people like me. We don't deserve any mercy, and we also don't beg for it. We are people who don't regret for the crimes we committed. And, in the eyes of the real heroes, we don't deserve miss anyone.

I'm one of these solitary snakes no-one loves.

I'm the one who misses her.

Her, Bellatrix Lestrange, cruel witch, like anyone, accomplice, friend and wife, knowledgeable of all my secrets and ambition. I miss her.

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_Nea Poulain_

_8 de febrero de 2013 – Original_

_September 6, 2013 – Translation _


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